Submerge
by trufflemores
Summary: 6.05. Companion piece to 'Rekindle.' Kurt and Blaine share an elevator.


"Do you think they did all right?"

"Hmm?"

"The Warblers."

Kurt shifts, tilting his head – still pillowed against Blaine's thigh – to look up at him, scarcely visible in the dark. "We're trapped in an elevator and you're worried about how well they performed?"

Blaine worries his lip, a light, barely there gesture that immediately draws Kurt's gaze. Entranced, he barely notices when Blaine clears his throat quietly and says, "It's their first competition." His fingers trace Kurt's shoulder absentmindedly, latching onto a shirt corner and smoothing it out softly. "They're spectacular, but – I don't want it to hurt their morale if they lose." Stroking the small patch of cloth with his thumb, Blaine sighs, his back against the wall and his head tilting back to join it with a light _thunk. _"Ow," he grumbles. "I wish she'd locked us in the cafeteria. At least it has food."

"Mmm." Kurt's own stomach rumbles on cue and a hiccup of a laugh escapes Blaine before he stifles it, coughing lightly to cover the momentary lapse. "Don't mention food."

"How long do you think she'll keep us in here?" Blaine asks.

Kurt shrugs, closing his eyes and imagining Sue snarling into her camera because _why isn't it working._ He smiles a little to himself, unable to keep his amusement hidden. Flicking his gaze up to the camera in the corner, he wonders if she's there now, watching them, or ranting to Becky about how insufferably uncooperative they are. _We're not having sex in an elevator, _he thinks, looking straight at the camera and giving a one-finger salute.

"_I saw that._"

Blaine startles, smacking his head loudly against the wall as Kurt scowls at the ceiling and says clearly, "Screw you, Sue."

Thunder rumbles from the speakers. Kurt rolls his eyes.

"You don't think she can actually make it rain in here, do you?" Blaine asks, reaching halfheartedly for his shirt, crumpled on the floor, as if it can shield them.

"I doubt it," Kurt assures, closing his eyes and trying not to focus on his own hunger and discomfort. He can't deny that the company's good, but it's been several hours – the stampede of jubilant show choirs post-competition trampling overhead confirmed that – and he craves freedom from the cold confines of the elevator. As it is, he focuses on being as patient and zen-like as possible, hoping to give off the impression that he's outwitted Sue and no longer cares about being trapped.

Another countless period of time passes, Blaine's hand resuming its idle tracing along Kurt's shoulders, his breathing evening to match Kurt's own in the quiet. It's hard to be upset for long, Kurt finds, because for once he isn't rushing to meet a deadline. He doesn't have a flight he needs to catch, emails he needs to respond to, meetings to attend, finals to study for. While he still maintains a fashion blog and regularly experiments with new clothing pieces on the side, nothing _demands _his attention; no one _requires _his presence. Rachel, he concedes, is probably searching frantically for him, but even she can manage on her own for now.

The pace is slower here, compelling him to accept and adapt rather than fight it. He lacks the urgency that he had in New York, lofty goals and high ambitions fading away to simpler pursuits. There's still a fire in him that craves Broadway and recognition and a career that pushes him to his limits, but it's dim, smoldering, crackling in time with the soft, heady breaths overhead.

It takes him a while to resurface, becoming aware of Blaine's fingers carding slowly through his hair before anything. It's colder in the elevator and Kurt groans softly at the stiffness in his own limbs, giving the hand in his hair pause before it resumes stroking. Tilting his head to rest his cheek against Blaine's thigh, he sighs, asking slowly, "How long was I out?"

"No idea," Blaine responds truthfully, his own voice husky with sleep, and Kurt wonders if he dozed off, too, or if it's merely the lack of use that does it.

Opening his eyes, Kurt's startled that he can't see anything, neither the edges of the elevator or even Blaine, the darkness oppressive, suffocating, complete. His breathing picks up as he freezes, willing himself not to panic even as he sits upright slowly, feeling adrift the second his skin loses contact with Blaine.

"When did she turn off the lights?" he asks, and his voice is childish and thin again, nervous.

"A while ago," Blaine replies. "Guess she didn't want to waste the electricity." The bitterness in his tone is plain, frustration coupled with annoyance, but Kurt can't focus on that, can't focus on anything except how dark and small the space really is, how he can't even see his own _hands. _"Are you okay?" Blaine asks, tone shifting from bitter and sleepy to alert, protective. "Hey." His hand grips Kurt's elbow gently and Kurt folds, clambering across the space noiselessly and tucking himself into Blaine's lap because _it's okay it's okay it's okay you're safe it's okay._

Heart racing, he presses his cheek against Blaine's shoulder and wraps both arms tightly around his waist, grateful to just be held and not judged, to be held and not asked _why, _to be held and understood instantly.

_"Kurt, baby, shh," Blaine soothed, and Kurt noticed in some rational corner of his mind that he was babbling – I lost, I lost, I lost, someone cheated, they're going to suspend me, I lost – "shh. I've got you. It's okay."_

He's shivering and he can't stop, but Blaine doesn't seem to mind, tightening his grip with every shudder until Kurt's gasping but he doesn't want him to let go, doesn't want him to let go and leave again –

"_I was with someone._"

_It was like all the air was sucked out of his lungs, and he tried, he tried to draw in breath to speak but anger and hurt were grappling so tightly he didn't know which emotion was winning as he stared at Blaine and didn't recognize him._

For a moment, Kurt can't draw breath again, stuck in that place where everything aches, where the cold bitter streets are more tempting than his warm bed because he doesn't feel human anymore, but the arms around him are strong and firm and he trusts that, trusts _him, _and the tidal wave ebbs, leaving him space to gasp for air, to breathe again.

"_You're coming to New York, right?"_

_Kurt didn't mean to phrase it so bluntly but Blaine was being so warm and charming and irresistibly sweet, and summer and senior year were approaching too fast for Kurt and Kurt didn't want to lose him, couldn't lose him, not because his dreams were too far away, and he had to be sure of this before anything else._

_Blaine's eyebrows ticked upward in surprise as his mouth fell open just so, enough to shatter Kurt's heart because Blaine didn't want New York and Kurt couldn't leave him but he couldn't leave his dreams either. Then Blaine regained his footing and offered his most charming smile before saying, "Of course." Then, reaching for Kurt's hands across the coffee table, Blaine squeezed them and insisted, "Of course._"

"Why did you say yes?"

There's a beat when Kurt can feel Blaine's confusion, his hand slowing as it traces broad circles against his spine.

"To what?"

"New York."

Blaine doesn't respond at first, perhaps sifting through his own memories. His grip on Kurt loosens fractionally at he thinks. Not inclined to leave the circle of his arms, Kurt waits, brushing his own thumb against the back of Blaine's shoulder encouragingly.

"I wanted to be with you," Blaine says at last, and the honesty aches, his voice rumbling a little against Kurt's chest as he speaks, hushed, confessional. "I didn't really want to go to UCLA like Coop or Yale like my parents, and I _liked _New York. And once you knew that you wanted to go there, I started picking out schools and that was that." He shrugs, a modest gesture – as if the Anderson lineage didn't boast considerable track records and the expectations weren't severe the moment he set his sights on a different course – and resumes drawing shapes against Kurt's spine.

At last: "I've made a lot of mistakes, but following you was never one of them."

An unspoken weight from Kurt's chest lifts, relieving him from the guilt of an empty bed and the door closing behind Blaine for the last time.

New York wasn't Blaine's first pick, he knows, but it was still his choice.

_Kurt _was Blaine's choice. Not an impulse, not a one-time deal, not just a high school sweetheart.

"_Kurt Hummel._

_My amazing friend. My one true love._

_Will you marry me?"_

The ache is back, so intense that Kurt almost can't breathe around it.

How did he ever let Blaine _go_?

"_Who's Chandler?"_

Kurt sighs and sinks in Blaine's arms, tucking his face against the crook between shoulder and cheek, willing the world to go away for a while and let them be.

He remembers the days before the drama, the days when whispered _I love yous _pressed against sleep-warm skin felt like forevers and always.

He remembers what it felt like to fall head over heels for a boy he didn't know would ever reciprocate his feelings; remembers dreading asking the question and receiving only the gentlest, kindest rejection in return; remembers watching Blaine flirt with other people without knowing how deeply he was driving the knife in Kurt's chest.

It feels like forever since Kurt has felt so safe, so cared for, so loved. Nothing matters outside Blaine's grip, the freneticism of the world both literally and metaphorically muted in the elevator.

"_I'm going to go in there and get coronated. I'm gonna show them that it doesn't matter yelling at me or whispering behind my back. They can't touch me. _

_They can't touch us._"

Of course, Kurt thinks as he listens to the faint staccato of Blaine's breath and is grateful that the silence isn't pressed and conversation isn't required like it once was, they're as vulnerable to the outside world as he always feared.

Blaine can be taken from him –

"_Just to tell you once again – who's bad?"_

And he from Blaine.

_They took the stairs at a crawl and Kurt was so tired that he shook and barely held his own weight but Blaine didn't mind, letting him stagger and pause, not asking again if he needed help but offering it wordlessly with every step. _

_When they reached the door Kurt was breathless but so relieved it hurt. It was good to be home, to be safe, to be somewhere that no one could hurt him._

_And when he slid into it his bed was perfect and kind to his bruised skin and almost as gentle as Blaine's arms._

They're lovely arms, Kurt thinks, warm against the cool air, strong but softer than the steel behind them.

"I need to get up and stretch, babe," Blaine says, and it's so familiar that Kurt almost misses the endearment, nodding and shuffling out of his grasp carefully.

They fumble a little in the dark, Blaine rising with soft groans to stretch, Kurt's ears flushing because he can't see Blaine but he can _feel_ him, so close, and he's utterly irresistible.

He doesn't drift far from Blaine even though the elevator has plenty of space. As soon as he feels Blaine begin to settle down, he says, "Let me," and can feel Blaine's gaze on him as he reaches out and finds his hand, tugging him forward.

Blaine goes easily, following him as Kurt settles against the wall – still tantalizingly warm from Blaine's body heat – and wordlessly sliding down until he can rest his head on Kurt's leg.

It's as if a switch goes off inside Kurt, his own muscles unwinding as Blaine relaxes. It makes him think of late nights at the apartment, Blaine dozing at his hip while Kurt watches a new show or talks with Rachel. Sometimes Blaine contributes, proving his consciousness with murmured conversation or dry commentary, but mostly he's just there, quietly absorbing while Kurt groans and gnaws his nails and gives as good as he gets when Rachel's involved.

It's nice.

"Do you think the Warblers made it back safe?" Blaine asks, slow and thoughtful.

Kurt snorts, letting a hand brush his shoulder. "Honey."

"They can't drive the van."

"Rachel can."

Kurt can almost see Blaine's brow furrow in confusion. "But Rachel isn't –"

"Eager to assume leadership of a leaderless faction?"

A pause. Then: "I still hope they made it home safe. And Pav's okay."

Kurt blinks, hand resting on Blaine's shoulder. "Pav?"

"Oh, I didn't – she's our new canary," he explains. "I thought it would be good to carry on the tradition."

Kurt doesn't – can't – speak for a moment.

"_What's that?"_

"_I'm decorating Pavarotti's casket."_

"That's great," he says at last, trying not to picture the too small grave, the tiny bedazzled casket.

"I haven't actually introduced her to the boys yet," Blaine murmurs, oblivious to his thoughts but still soothing, somehow, "but she should be okay. I fed her before we left and if Rachel really stole the van then the keys to my office should still be in it."

"Do you know who you're going to give her to first?"

Blaine hesitates, the tiny hitch in his breathing the only way that Kurt can detect it in the dark before he says, "I was going to give her to Jane."

_Oh._

There's silence between them, but it's less cold than Kurt expected, as though even the reminder of feuds and fights is suppressed inside the elevator. Or maybe they're bigger people. He's not sure, but he's grateful for it, grateful for the easy way that the words come to him.

"She's really special."

"She is."

"The Warblers are really special, too." Before Blaine can interject more than a nod against Kurt's leg, Kurt adds quietly, "We'll take care of her. I know how important it was to you to fight for her, and I am _so _proud of you, Blaine, but her talents won't go unrecognized here."

Blaine draws in a deep breath and Kurt isn't expecting it when he says, "I'm sorry for being such an ass about it."

"You weren't – "

"Kurt."

Kurt bites his lip, saying nothing.

"And honestly, you're absolutely right," he adds, speaking almost more to the open air than Kurt. "Jane is so talented and the Warblers . . . they're a team. The team comes first," he elaborates. "It's not about . . . being creative or inventive or _special _unless it works for everyone."

Humming, Kurt doesn't respond, reaching up ever so gently to tweak one of the freed curls from Blaine's gel helmet. "Why do you use so much?" he asks, not even intending to say the words aloud, fondly amused.

Blaine's laugh is a hiccup as he says, "Have you _seen _my curls?"

"Mmhm, and they're amazing," Kurt says, twirling the free one gently. "You should let them loose more. You'll regret it in your thirties when you're balding."

"I am _not _balding," Blaine squawks, affronted.

"You're also not in your thirties," Kurt reminds lightly, tracing the curve of his jaw with his thumb. "You are so hot, honestly," he adds, almost disgruntled but mostly amused.

He can feel the smile on Blaine's lips as he tilts his cheek against Kurt's palm, nuzzling it lightly. "Sam didn't recognize me."

"Hmm?"

"I stopped gelling briefly. Apparently it's not my best look."

"Mmm."

Kurt scratches lightly at the exposed back of his neck, feeling Blaine go limp against him as he does so. Letting the silence stretch between them, Kurt listens to the soft creaks and barely audible groans of McKinley after hours instead, taking in their predicament. Sue must have made a good cover up story for his dad and Carole; Kurt knows that they'd be expecting him home by now otherwise. Wondering just how long Sue is willing to keep them locked up, he feels his own thoughts drifting to more mechanical pursuits as he factors in the possibility of breaking out.

Sure, their first few attempts were unsuccessful, but that doesn't mean future tries are doomed to fail. Plus, the elevator only dropped one floor before coming to an abrupt halt. Surely it couldn't be _that _difficult to pry open the doors and escape, right?

Willing to at least make the attempt, he sits up a little and almost misses as Blaine shifts closer in response, a barely perceptible movement in the dark that brings him nose to hip, lips smacking softly as he curls inward.

Kurt doesn't speak, hardly dares move for a long moment before reaching out and resting a hand lightly on Blaine's curved shoulder, feeling him exhale softly against his shirt.

Oh.

"Blaine?"

"Hmm." Soft. Barely there.

"Sit up?"

"Hmm." Obliging, if not particularly eloquent, Blaine scoots upright slowly, letting his head rest against Kurt's shoulder as soon as he can. "Kurt?"

"Yes?"

"What –"

"Just trying to get more comfortable," Kurt says, feeling the tension evaporate from Blaine's spine as he nods and sits back, letting Kurt bundle his vest carefully into a square on the floor, adding Blaine's shirt on top of it for good measure.

It isn't soft, not by any means, nor particularly comfortable, but it's dark and quiet and Blaine's hushed, even breathing is infectious.

They can try the door again in a few hours, he knows, pillowing his head on the tiny pile of clothes and tucking an arm around Blaine's waist, feeling him cozy up to his chest, exhaling again in relief.

Side-by-side, breathing almost in sync, it's easy to get lost in it, to forget that they're trapped at all, to do anything other than marvel at the warmth of Blaine at his side and the burgeoning hope between them.

Running a hand slowly up and down Blaine's arm and feeling each breath against his own chest, Kurt lets his thoughts wander, his feet tucked lightly against Blaine's.

They're not perfect, and he knows that there are still problems to be worked through – _why have you been seeing a therapist? _– but Kurt also feels the rightness of the moment, of Blaine's presence, of Blaine's place in his world.

He likes himself and what he's achieved on his own, but he likes having Blaine at his side, too.

_We'll get through this, _he thinks, fingers tracing feather-light over the dusting of hair on Blaine's arms.

And he knows, in his heart-of-hearts, that he isn't referring solely to the elevator.

Tucking his arm around Blaine's waist, he surrenders to sleep, confident that when he wakes they'll work through whatever happens together.


End file.
